The biopsy completed
I go home to make
Stroopwafels,
and pour myself
into each exacted step:
let the dough rise,
after bringing the ingredients together
massaging the butter
with a gentle circular motion
a familiar touch from
the last few weeks
three fingers around in a revolution
set up the iron,
questioning if it’s hot enough
before bringing the dough to it
paper gown loosely tied
arm in the air
a woman in pink scrubs
leads me to the machine
press each ball of batter
from tumor to
golden
paper-thin and delicate
making sure the pattern
comes through clearly
images come back
alright so I can
dress and go
I melt more butter,
creating cinnamon syrup
watching it carefully
more pink scrubs
and a long needle
guided by ultrasound
I grab a serrated knife
and tear through the cookie
It might be something
to deal with
a major detail moving
to the top of my life story
Pooling hot caramel on one half
counting to ten as it cools and thickens
from nothing to something
I made this, setting the top on
slowly, so nothing is wasted out the edges
I take the next in line.
My Dutch friend said
weeks earlier he couldn’t
find these cookies anywhere.
Stroopwafels, he called them,
back when I had time
to listen.
The kitchen warms from
the heat of the stove.
My face flushes
and I forget about
the treatment brochure
in my purse,
just in case, they said.
It takes all afternoon.
Wrapping cookies passes more time
I box them up for him.
By the time he opens the package
I’ll know.
Jessica S. Frank is a poet from Wisconsin. She has been published in a few small journals that closed, and then a few more that are still open. She was an Artist-in-Residence at Arteles (Hameenkyro, Finland) in March 2015.
Eunoia Review 